


On a Dark Desert Highway...

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, American South West, Animal Death, BAMF John, Bad Parenting Advise, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dubcon Kissing, Humor, M/M, Pining John, Possible Bed Bugs, Unsafe Sex, Virgin Sherlock, but its totally cute dont worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Different Meet AU Prompt - We're both on a road trip and keep running into each other at rest stops.</p><p>What if instead of starting a blog, Ella had advised John to take a trip? What if at the same time Sherlock was tracing a drug cartel along the same route? What if Sherlock thought John was following him? What if John didn't mind seeing that gorgeous bloke every so often, because damn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Dark Desert Highway...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/gifts).



> Saw this ridiculous list of AU ideas not too long ago and thought, that road trip AU, there's something there. I've driven this very route through the desert myself, so I felt I could do it justice. Hopefully you guys think so too.  
> Uploaded in part to celebrate reaching 50k hits. Thank you dearest readers! *throws confetti*  
> I'm also gifting this story to my dear friend [Superblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/pseuds/superblue) because she's been down and I can't physically hug her, but I can write porn, and that's almost as good.  
> Unbeta'd and unbrit-picked, mistakes are my own.  
> Also, there's brief mentions of coyote death, but I'm headcanon-ing that he was a bad coyote and his death was justified.  
> Also, also, there's unsafe sex practices happening in this one because I tried to work in the convo about condoms and being clean, and these two assholes stupidly _talked_ for like 500 words. I literally deleted the whole bit, grabbed John by the scruff of his neck, and forced him to shut his cake hole and suck. Wickedly bad real world practices, but y'all should know that by now.  
>  Enjoy.

John snarls as, yet again, the wind sends his map whipping over itself, nearly out of his grasp. He slaps his hand down and smoothes it, knowing fair well it’s only going to happen again - a battle between him and Mother Nature.

**  
**

“Kinda old fashion, isn’t it? Using a map?” A feminine voice says next to him, clearly finding humour in his troubles. “Here.”

**  
**

John watches, interest piqued, as the twenty-something year old sets her bottle of cherry flavoured Coke down on top of the map, waiting a tic to see if the wind will send it rolling over the bonnet of his rental. When it stays put she beams at him.

**  
**

“Ta da!” She exclaims with a bright smile. “That should hold ya for a bit.”

**  
**

“My hero,” John teases, trying valiantly not to lay it on too thick.

**  
**

“Oh,” the woman breathes, “aren’t you a long way from home, sir!” She grins at him like she’s found a rare and expensive jewel. He's never going to get over how easy it is in America to catch a woman’s attention. If the lads back home knew the truth in the rumour, they’d flock like seagulls - another British invasion. Too bad he’s hasn’t actually managed to pull one yet. _Early days, John, early days_ , he tells himself.

**  
**

“Quite, yeah,” John agrees, laying it on as thick as he pleases, valor be damned. He leans his hip against the car, effecting a casual stance, hoping she’s not seen the cane that’s propped up against the car door. “London is miles away, isn’t it?”

**  
**

The woman’s eyes light up and she immediately dives into a story about how her best friend in college went to London for a semester but how she was unable to go and how she’s always wanted to and are fries really called chips and does the Queen ever leave the palace and go walking about? She's sinking fast, John can tell. He's just about to reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, when a flash of shockingly bright purple catches his eye.

**  
**

The man’s six foot if an inch, rail thin, but with broad shoulders and a power walk that says he’ll plow right through you if you stand in his way. The wind catches in his bespoke jacket, whipping it out behind him, giving tantalizing glimpses of his trim waist and slim hips. John’s eyes are lasered onto the way his shirt plasters across his chest, the buttons practically screaming for mercy, so he doesn’t notice that the woman he’s been chatting up has noticed his distraction.

**  
**

“Ah, I see,” she mumbles. “Well, it was nice talking to you. Don’t get lost now.”

**  
**

She starts walking away and John snaps back into his body. “Wait, I’m not-”

**  
**

She turns back with a twinkle in her eye; not about to believe a word of it. “You can keep the Coke.”

**  
**

John grunts at the mystery strangers timing, though he’s already disappeared into the information center, and likely wouldn’t care that he’d ruined John’s chances at a one-off anyway. He watches as the woman hops into her car and drives away, leaving John with a bottle of Coke and half a cockstand for his troubles. At least he tells himself it's the woman who’s caused the unfortunate blood flow south.

**  
**

He ignores it, and goes back to retracing his steps on the map.

**  
**

~*~

**  
**

The next morning, John wakes to his mobile alarm, and immediately groans in pain, as his thighs, back, and shoulder all scream louder and longer. Having slept in the rental hasn't done him any favours; next time he’ll spring for a motel, no matter how shady they appear.

**  
**

He rolls out of the car and hobbles to the boot for his ruck sack. The petrol station/dinner he’d stopped at the night before is now open, the smell of coffee wafting on the breeze, and John takes pleasure in the simplicity of that, instead of focusing on the vague sense of loneliness the desert landscape seems to automatically exacerbate.

**  
**

A family of four pulls in beside him, and the lot of them pile out, loud and clearly hungry. John smiles at the son, likely about four, who stands next to his dad, staring up at John in the unrestrained way children his age do.

**  
**

The boy tugs insistently on his father’s trousers, pointing up at John. “Dad, who’s that?”

**  
**

The father looks down at his son and then over to where the boy’s pointing. “Oh, leave the guy alone, Jake,” he mumbles, clearly used to the boy’s curiosity. “Jen, take the kids inside while I finish pumping, they’re at it already.”

**  
**

“I didn’t do anything!” The daughter screeches, slinging her pink backpack down onto the ground.

**  
**

John hides his smile behind the boot lid and waits until the mother has tugged the children inside before finishing up with his clothes.

**  
**

“You got any kids?”

**  
**

John looks up. “Hmm?”

**  
**

“Kids, you got any?” The man asks again.

**  
**

John can see then where the boy gets his curiosity. For purely selfish reasons, and maybe a bit of boredom, John affects an American accent, “Ah, no, I don’t. Gotta find a woman to stick around long enough first.”

**  
**

The man laughs good-naturedly. “Right, right. Well, let me give you some unsolicited advice,” he finishes pumping, jiggling the handle into his gas tank, and meets John as he pulls his cane from the passenger seat, “if you do decide to start a family, don’t listen to a thing your wife says about ‘non-violent punishments’, okay? Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, I’d never hurt them,” he looks around before whispering, “permanently. But sometimes what I wouldn’t give to-”

**  
**

The man gets cut off his rant by the door to the dinner opening before he can get his hand on it. John is stunned into place, confronted with a familiar frame, this time blowing past in a white button-down, no less stressed across his frame, but sans jacket, the sleeves rolled up his pale forearms. John wants to say something to him, possibly tease him for wearing white in the dust bowl of a town they're in, but the harangued father of two is holding the dinner door open for him, still going on about choking his kids or what-have-you.

**  
**

John follows behind reluctantly, only vaguely listening. He’s gotten a better look at the man this time, his ridiculous bone structure, his almond-tilted eyes - a shocking shade of blue they had been - just before he’d perched a pair of sunglasses on his aquiline nose. He was so pale, nearly as white as his shirt; English sort of pale, John muses, like a beacon calling out to him, a sign. Christ, John needs to get a grip. The man is a stranger, a traveler, like himself; just because they’ve crossed paths twice in as many days doesn’t signify anything.

**  
**

John leaves the man with his family and moves to the loo to freshen up and change his clothes, putting the lot of it out of his mind as best he can. Off to Albuquerque next.

**  
**

~*~

**  
  
**

By the fifth sighting, John is pretty much convinced the man is following him. Or, at the very least, somehow anticipating John’s route before he does, since he seems to always be where John is; either just arriving or just leaving. John can't help but become just a little bit more obsessed with each sighting. Yesterday, John had spotted him under a tree at a rest stop outside Flagstaff, clearly arguing with someone on a mobile, though he’d been too far away to make out the words. He'd simply watched as the man paced back and forth, hand waving in agitation, curls tugged on in frustration.

**  
**

John had wanted to strike up a conversation, casual teasing perhaps, maybe offer to share a cold drink on a park bench, but the man never acknowledges the strangeness of their running into each other. Never once makes so much as eye contact. The behavior seems closed off, not inviting in the least, so John continues to keep his distance every time they meet.

**  
**

John fancies a guess and thinks the man is probably a city boy, a banker or some such. The cut of his clothes, the car he drives, his artfully tousled hair - the man has money, that much is clear. The only thing John can’t figure out is what he’s doing driving across America. He never seems to be enjoying himself, so not on holiday. Perhaps he has business on the west coast but is afraid to fly? That doesn’t seem to fit either. The man seems impervious to fear. John isn’t entirely sure why he thinks so, maybe just in the way he holds himself, the permanently sketched scowl on his face, but that’s the impression he gets. John can picture him shaking off a phobia like a dusting of snow, merely an inconvenience.  

**  
**

_You are too romantic by far, mate_ , John thinks as he sips his lemonade, turning the radio down once the commercials come on.

**  
**

It's another romantic fancy that John thinks the man looks as miserable as John feels. Not just from the hellish heat outside the Mojave desert, but a lingering sense of… aloneness perhaps. He would have a kindred spirit if that were the case. John knows it's ridiculous, the man is clearly well off; even if he's as mean-spirited as he looks, he wouldn’t want for companionship.  

**  
**

He chucks the empty bottle in the backseat and pulls off onto the exit that signals the last rest stop for sixty miles. The sun is setting as he drives up, painting the landscape in red and gold, giving the squat building purporting to be a rest stop an otherworldly appearance. Then again, most things in the desert tend to look eerie to John, regardless of the time of day.

**  
**

He rolls to a stop, snatching his cane by rote as he exits the car. The gravel is tricky to navigate in his condition but mostly he ignores it as he wonders at the architecture of the building, the lack of a roof. It’s a nifty design, if a bit… exposed.

**  
**

Once inside, as he relieves himself, he stares up at the stars, just making an appearance in the soft blue sky, dotting between fluffy orange clouds.

**  
**

“What if it rains?” He wonders aloud as he zips up.

**  
**

“You’re in the Mojave,” a rumbling bass answers behind him. John whips around to find his mystery companion leaning casually in the doorway behind him. He goes on despite John’s gaping maw. “Annual rainfall is about five inches. Therefore unlikely.”

**  
  
**

“You’re English,” John replies stupidly. He blinks at the man’s smirk. When nothing further is forthcoming John fills the awkward silence. “Well, uh, fancy meeting you here.” He smiles, or tries to anyway; something about the moment seems tense, though he can’t fathom what it is, other than being cornered in a loo in the middle of nowhere...

**  
**

The man peels gracefully away from the wall and stalks forward. “Yes,” he growls, “fancy that.”

**  
**

John backs up until his shoulders slam into the wall, but the man keeps coming, throwing his forearm up to lay across John’s chest, pressing him further into the beige clay.

**  
**

Adrenaline courses through John’s bloodstream, but he forces himself not to act until he knows exactly what’s happening.

**  
**

“Who do you work for? Mycroft doesn’t hire imbeciles, so you’re not one of his.”

**  
**

The familiar scent of tea blows across John’s face, so for a second he‘s disoriented, unable to parse the words. His first thought is, _Home_. And then, _Where did he find Earl Grey out here? Ridiculous, he probably conjured it from thin air._

**  
**

“Answer me now or I’ll assume you’re one of Oliver’s and I’ll collapse your windpipe and leave you here to suffocate.”

**  
**

“Wait,” John blinks back to the present, “did you call me an imbecile?”

**  
**

The man rolls his eyes skyward. “You’re not even smart enough to do a convincing accent.”

**  
**

“Oi, my accent isn’t fake! I’m from Hampshire. And anyway, I have no idea what you think I’m involved in but-”

**  
**

The arm at his chest presses down harder. John can feel his bones shifting, and thinks wildly, _He’s stronger than he looks_. It’s possible he’s not taking this situation as serious as he should.

**  
**

“Idiot,” he spits, “I meant you weren’t smart enough to fake an American accent.” He shoves his arm against John’s chest once more. “Don’t bother lying about your involvement. You’ve showed up at nearly every place I’ve stopped since Vaughn. I’ve even changed routes and yet, there you are. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?” The man’s blatant disbelief is obvious, for good reason John has to agree. It did seem unlikely, but as he hasn’t been following the man consciously, if anything he’s thought the same of the man before him, there isn’t a lot he can do to prove himself.

**  
**

So, with hardly any thought, he hooks his leg around the mans longer one and shoves him off balance. It works, for a second, but the man has quite the reaction speed. He’s on John’s back before John can take three steps toward the door, an arm wrapped around his throat. He grunts, throwing an elbow back and into the man’s ribs, and miraculously manages to land a blow that knocks the man back.

**  
**

They dance around the loo, trading hooks and jabs. If John’s honest, he’s having the time of his life. The man even seems to enjoy it when John lands a particularly solid blow to his jaw, his smirk doing things to John’s stomach that he tries valiantly to ignore.

**  
**

The man licks at his gums, which must be bleeding just a bit.

**  
**

“Had enough yet?” John queries, cocky and high on adrenaline.

**  
**

“Never,” he responds, a growl so deep it’s a weapon onto itself.

**  
**

He rushes John, backing him into the far wall, near the entrance, but John easily reverses their positions, ramming him right back. Curls shake as John rattles him, and he notes absently how completely incongruous they are with the rest of him. Long lines, sharp angles, snarls and scowls, but then those riotous, soft-looking ringlets edging his face. Ridiculous.

**  
**

Before the man can effect a counter-maneuver, the most absurd thing so far happens. A gun appears in the doorway, a Sig Sauer p226, with a tanned arm attached, inching further inside. John, again, doesn’t think, just acts.

**  
**

He grips the barrel and twists, taking the weapon easily from the stranger, who cries out, surprised at being pulled forward with the momentum. John doesn’t hesitate to bring the commandeered weapon down onto the gunman’s temple, who, upon finding such unexpected rapid-fire turning of events, blinks disbelievingly up at John before falling over.

**  
**

John huffs, looking up at his travel companion in question, hoping for an explanation.

**  
**

The man looks poleaxed. “You…” He blinks down at the gunman. “You’re not one of Oliver’s.”

**  
**

“Not that I’m aware,” John answers the statement dryly, sliding the pistol down the back of his trousers.

**  
**

The man opens his mouth but when the sound of tyres on gravel sliding into the car park is heard, he instead grabs John by his collar and hauls him toward the opposite wall. The long-legged berk uses the porcelain lip of the loo to hop up onto the top of the wall, and then looks down at John as if to say ‘what are you waiting on?’

**  
**

John barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, doing his best to follow behind without looking like a hedgehog rolling over a log. They both make it over the top of the wall as the first assailant makes it around the corner.

**  
**

His companion runs full tilt for his car but John stops, pulls the borrowed pistol, and takes aim. Before the assailant knows what hit him, John has taken out his right leg, a thigh graze but deep enough to bleed profusely. He falls to the dirt with a dramatic wail.

**  
**

“Nice aim,” the man comments as they dive into the car and peel out.

**  
**

“Actually I was aiming for the ground at his feet but,” John admits with a shrug, not really that upset with the outcome.

**  
**

The man whips the car out of the drive, but, to John’s surprise, comes back around to the front, where John's own rental is parked. For a wild second John thinks the man is going to push him from the car to deal with the gang of probable mobsters by himself.

**  
**

But then he commands, “Shoot the tyres,” as they come to a stop.

**  
**

“What?” John asks, incredulous.

**  
**

“For god’s sake, shoot out their tyres!”

**  
**

“Oh.” John snaps back to attention. He quickly opens the door, takes aim again and shoots out the back two tyres as the driver attempts to come after them.

**  
**

“Good, get in,” the man snaps at him. John doesn’t need to be told twice.

**  
**

They’re back onto the road, kicking up dust in their wake, before John remembers the gun in his hand. He drops it to the floor of the car and sits back. A giggle escapes; his adrenaline is coming down, leaving him giddy. To his surprise, the man seated next to him starts giggling too, albeit a much deeper, masculine chuckle.

**  
**

“That was ridiculous,” John announces with another snicker, runs a hand through his hair, and smiles at the ceiling of the rental.

**  
**

“Mmm,” the man agrees. “You still expect me to believe you’re just a civilian with moves like that?”

**  
**

John rolls his head to glance over, surreptitiously watching the man’s thighs flex in the remaining light of the day.

**  
**

“I’m military,” John admits. “Ex-military,” he corrects as an after-thought.

**  
**

“Obviously.” The man reaches out to turn the air up, tilting the middle vent toward John.

**  
**

“Ta,” John thanks him, genuinely grateful. He sticks his fingers into the vent, letting the cool air run up his arms, and then thinks about what the bloke had said. “Wait, what’s obvious about it?”

**  
**

He glances over. “You were wounded in action, invalided home recently. Depressed, probably advised by your therapist to go on holiday, put some things in perspective.”

**  
**

“It was either that or start a blog,” John cuts in softly. “How did you get military though? Maybe I’d been hit by a lorry.”

 

The man smirks but continues. “Moves, familiarity with weapons, tan line well established before you came to America, haircut is military issue but slightly grown out. Your limp is psychosomatic by the way.”

**  
**

John blinks stupidly at the dash. “Yes, I know. How…” He feels the first frisson of uneasy skate down his spine. “Have you been following me?”

**  
**

The man snorts. “No, I simply observed. It is fairly simple, more people should try it.”

**  
**

John lets out a relieved chuckle, even though he’s fairly sure he’s just been insulted again.

**  
**

“What?” His companion drawls.

**  
**

“Nothing, it’s just… That was brilliant.”

**  
**

The man’s hands flex on the wheel. “It was?”

**  
**

“Well, yes, quite extraordinary.” John drums his fingers on his thighs and then digs them into the flesh. “So when did you come to the conclusion that I wasn’t your enemy?”

**  
**

“Just now, actually,” he admits. “Well, since we’ve been driving.”

**  
**

“Oh yeah?”

**  
**

“Yes. The way you dispatched Oliver’s man might have been a calculated tactic to throw me off but you’ve been rubbing at your thigh absently, which means it is actually bothering you. I thought the cane was a ruse to throw me off, doubly so when you obviously didn’t need it while fighting,” John marvels at that bit of information, “but since you’ve come down from the rush of adrenaline, you’re more aware of it. Correct?”

**  
**

“Uh, yeah, actually. It doesn’t seem as bad but… yeah. Huh.” He glances out the window before it occurs to him that he’s left his cane in the rest stop… along with everything in his possession in his rental. “Shit.”

**  
**

“Don’t worry, we’ll go back for it later.” The man turns the air back down and cracks his window; the cooler night air rushes up past John from behind, ruffling his hair.

**  
**

John finds an obvious flaw in his companions plan. “Seems kind of stupid, don’t you think? Going back for it?”

**  
**

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees readily. “Only an idiot would.” John licks his lips, not wanting to admit his confusion, but the man must pick up on it anyway. “I’m most assuredly not an idiot. They won’t expect it.”

**  
**

“Right,” John drawls. The man is too bloody smart for his own good. John has never been so happy to be pulled into a high-stakes, life-or-death situation.

**  
**

“Fancy a cuppa?”

**  
**

“Dying,” John agrees with a secret smile.

**  
**

~*~

**  
**

Less than an hour later, under the cover of darkness, but for the bit of moonlight afforded, John and Sherlock, he finds his companion is named, lay on their bellies in the dust about twenty meters outside the rest stop.

**  
**

“Seems like they think you _are_ an idiot,” John casually notes, watching the lone mobster pace in front of John’s rental.

**  
**

“Should have factored the new variable in,” Sherlock replies darkly. “Stupid.”

**  
**

“What new variable?”

**  
**

“You.” When Sherlock catches John’s blank stare he elaborates. “I’m not known for working with anyone, I assumed they would know that and dismiss you entirely. But when I took you with me, they likely assumed we were working together and searched your belongings. They would have found your British issue passport and connected the dots.”

**  
**

“The wrong dots,” John points out.

**  
**

“Right, but dots all the same. This is good though, I can use this, I’ll just have to adjust the timetable.”

**  
**

“How so?”

**  
**

“Now they think it’s likely you’ll come back for your things, if only to keep them off your trail. I can track them back to their base of operations this way, or force this one,” he nods up at the man at the rest stop, “to take us there.”

**  
**

John rolls onto his back, moving the gun in his waistband to the front, and contemplates the new complications. “Would they have destroyed it? My passport.”

**  
**

“If they have I’ll personally make sure you get home. I’ve got connections.”

**  
**

“Right.” John looks up at the stars and lets the worry melt away for a minute. Sherlock is so quietly competent, John finds that he’s missed it more than he’d thought - being able to lean on someone again, knowing they have your back.

**  
**

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock’s voice quietly interrupts John’s thoughts.

**  
**

John rolls his head toward him. “Hmm? Oh. Afghanistan.”

**  
**

“Never been,” Sherlock comments casually, causing John to snort. “Anything like this?”

**  
**

He thinks on that. “The sky looks the same, the stars I mean. The sand is finer there, like powder really. It has different vegetation too, obviously.” He takes a deep breath of the sage filled air. “It definitely smells better here.”

**  
**

“What does Afghanistan smell like?”

**  
**

John quirks a smile at Sherlock’s inquisitiveness, despite the memories that the question dredges up. “To me? Blood.”

**  
**

A second of processing and Sherlock comes back with, “Bit dramatic.”

**  
**

John laughs so loud Sherlock has to slap a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. They both glance up to see if the mobster has heard but the man hasn’t moved from his perch on John’s rental. John peels Sherlock’s hand away. “That’s rather rude, you know? I was in a _war_ , it _was_ dramatic.”  

**  
**

Sherlock doesn’t look impressed.

**  
**

“All right. It smells like iron, not specifically blood, but just the mineral rich sands of the area. Bread, someone was always baking bread it seemed like. Car exhaust was a big one, they’re transportation has boomed in the last decade.” He grins in remembrance of a surprise find during one outing. “Weed. It smells like weed. They grow it everywhere. Opium too, but I only ever saw the marijuana fields.”

**  
**

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums in contemplation, seeming to file the information away. “Nothing like this then,” he concludes.

**  
**

“The heat is the same,” John notes as an afterthought. “Dry. Uncomfortable to the point of driving you mad. Makes you wonder how anyone came to settle in this sort of climate.”

**  
**

“They’re more acclimated,” Sherlock points out sensibly. “Londoners have no business in the desert.”

**  
**

“Too right.” John thinks about the implications of that and feels a building excitement. “You’re established in London, then?”

**  
**

“Of course,” he answers, as if that should be obvious, and, really, it should, “just found a little townhouse on Baker Street actually, before I took this case. Perhaps I should have informed Mrs. Hudson I was leaving,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.

**  
**

“So, you’re actually a detective? You said this Oliver person was a drug lord, but you never explained how you came to be chasing him.”

**  
**

“Consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the job.”

**  
**

What a peacock.

**  
**

“Consultant, hmm? Do consultants need to hop across the Atlantic to chase drug lords though? Couldn’t you have guessed, or whatever it is you do, his whereabouts and just pointed the police in the right direction?”

**  
**

“I never guess,” Sherlock states regally. John gives him a look. “It’s called _deduction_. And anyway, where’s the fun in that? I’ve got to get my kicks somewhere.”

**  
**

“MU matches don’t cut it, then?” John teases.

**  
**

“Pedestrian,” Sherlock grunts.

**  
**

John grins at the sky. If he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to fall hard for this absurd man. He’d been halfway there upon first sight, three-fourths when Sherlock had produced a thermos of tea from the backseat of his car. He’s busy trying to come up with a way to ask if they can continue this strange companionship once back on native soil, when a shot rings out.

**  
**

They’re both on their stomachs, primed to move, when a keening cries out to their right, cut short with another shot.

**  
**

“Crazy bastard shot a coyote,” John remarks, looking at Sherlock.

**  
**

The man simply shrugs a shoulder and rolls back over. John follows suit but with a new awareness of the fauna of the landscape. He’d stomped around to let scorpions know he was settling in when they’d first lay down but coyotes were another thing altogether.

**  
**

“So,” John drawls after a silent moment passes, “what’s the plan here? Sneak up on the gun wielding drug runner and simply ask him to hand over his boss?”

**  
**

“Depends,” Sherlock answers. “How many bullets are left in that pistol?”

**  
**

John pulls the gun, ejects the clip and hefts it in the air, making an estimate. “I’d say thirteen, there about.”

**  
**

“Don’t guess, count them, we need to be sure,” Sherlock commands.

**  
**

John frowns but rolls to his side to comply, thumbing the rounds out into his palm. “I’m risking getting dust in the clip like this, you know?” John remarks dryly.

**  
**

“I trust you to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Sherlock answers absently, also turning onto his side to watch John remove the bullets.

**  
**

John stops and looks up at him, a furrow in his brow he’s sure.

**  
**

“What?” Sherlock asks.

**  
**

“Why? Why do you trust me, you barely know me.” It really makes no sense, Sherlock could have dumped John anywhere on the road, or simply left him at the rest stop and to his fate, he didn’t have to align himself with John, and he certainly doesn’t have to trust him with his life.

**  
**

“I know enough,” Sherlock responds. “And anyway, you have even less reason to trust me and yet here you are.”

**  
**

“I have little options,” John points out, embarrassed at being called out.

**  
**

“No, but considering what I did upon our first acquaintance, and everything that’s happened after-”

**  
**

“Look,” John interrupts, “it’s fairly obvious to me that those are the bad guys, yeah? I understand that doesn’t automatically make you good, but you haven’t shot any defenseless animals yet-”

**  
**

“Coyotes aren’t defenseless.”

**  
**

“You know what I mean,” John snaps, and then takes a steadying breath. “You’re trying to help me, and I believe you really are after a drug lord, so… It just makes sense to help you.” He finishes with a decisive nod. Belatedly, John remembers the bullets in his palm, remembers he’s meant to be counting them. “Twelve,” he announces, thumbing them back into the clip.

**  
**

Sherlock clears his throat. “See? That could have been disastrous.”

**  
**

John glances up from under his brow. “Shut up.”

**  
**

Sherlock’s answering grin lights a fuse in John’s stomach. He really needs to get control of that, before he does something irreparable, like lean in and snog the man senseless. He doesn’t even know if Sherlock is single, let alone if he likes blokes. He could come out and ask but, from experience, John knows that can backfire. Is it even possible to be subtle with Sherlock? He very much doubts it.

**  
**

John snaps the clip back into the pistol, tucking it back into his waistband, after double checking the safety; he was distracted, he wasn’t an idiot.

**  
**

“I think between the two of us, we can subdue the man. Your muscle memory seems to be satisfactory.”

**  
**

“Hmm?” John snaps out of his musings. “Oh, yeah, I suppose. Wouldn’t have guessed that actually. I haven’t had to disarm an assailant in years.”

**  
**

“Muscle memory,” Sherlock reiterates. “What were you thinking about just now?”

**  
**

John freezes in a way that has nothing to do with his muscles. “What?” He asks stupidly.

**  
**

“Just now,” Sherlock waves his hand in front of John’s face, “you were miles away.”

**  
**

“Army… things,” he answers, obviously a lie. John could roll over and die, he’s so embarrassed. So much for fooling the most observant man he’s ever met.

**  
**

“No,” Sherlock drawls, suddenly twice as focused on John, pouncing on the lie, “your train of thought was derailed when I brought up your muscle memory. If you’d been thinking of your time in the service, it wouldn’t have been.”

**  
**

“What does it matter?” He tries to divert the conversation. “Don’t we have more to worry about?”

**  
**

He can just make out Sherlock’s eyes, the way they scan him, looking for tells. “Not if you’re hiding something. Not if you’re distracted by something.”

**  
**

“It’s nothing.” John prays Sherlock will leave it alone, but so far the man seems to be curious to a fault, collecting information like a bee collects pollen. John glances over again to find Sherlock waiting patiently. “God, can’t you just leave well enough alone? I’m trying to save this from getting awkward.”

**  
**

“Why would it get awkward?” Sherlock asks, all seeming innocence. He waits for John to explain as if the possibility of someone finding him attractive doesn’t even factor. How is that possible? Does the man not own a mirror? Has he lived in a bomb shelter up until now?

**  
**

“You… You really don’t know?” John is genuinely confused. It seems Sherlock is as well; a scowl appears. He’s definitely not satisfied with being out of the loop. John takes a breath and prays again that he’s not about to wreck everything. “Sherlock. It’s not a issue, I swear it doesn’t matter, but I- You’re… You’re impossibly attractive.” Sherlock rears back at this and John rushes to explain, “I swear, I wasn’t going to say anything, or, I mean, I was telling myself not to say anything rather. When you asked what I was thinking about,” he finishes lamely.

**  
**

Sherlock goes through several facial expressions - confusion, disbelief, curiosity, bewilderment. His mouth opens and closes, seeming to be unable to articulate any one point. Eventually, he rolls back over, contemplating the black above them instead of John’s face.

**  
**

“I’m not sure which bit has you so confused, but if you tell me I’ll try to explain,” John offers.

**  
**

“The part where you find me attractive,” Sherlock answers softly, still frowning up at the sky.

**  
**

John laughs, he can’t help it. “Are you serious? For real, serious? Christ.”

**  
**

He rolls back onto his side. “You said you’d explain!” Sherlock hisses.

**  
**

“Because you’re bloody gorgeous, you great fool! Not to mention brilliant and interesting and absolutely stark-raving mad and just… Oh,” he moans, dropping his head into his hand. _Real subtle, John, way to go. Now he’s going to scarper for sure._ John wishes the dead coyote’s family would show up and eat him. Or maybe they could just carry him off and he can live amongst them as a member of the pack.

**  
**

“John,” Sherlock whispers, softly. Almost like he doesn’t want to spook him.

**  
**

John raises his head, blinks until his eyes focus in the dark once more. “Yeah?”

**  
**

“It’s fine. If you feel that way, I mean. It’s… good.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet but seems sure.

**  
**

John perks up instantly, hope flaring bright. “Yeah?”

**  
**

With little to no thought, he leans forward and brings their lips together. It’s not like Sherlock has given the go ahead but John’s body hasn’t got the memo; it just _wants_. Well, it gets, about four seconds or so of solid contact, before Sherlock grabs John by the shoulder and shoves.

**  
**

“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock gasps, wide-eyed.

**  
**

The bottom falls out of John’s stomach. He’s just sexually assaulted the most interesting person he’s ever met. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I thought-”

**  
**

“You can’t just kiss someone-”

**  
**

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I just-”

**  
**

“Huge breach of etiquette-”

**  
**

“You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I can’t express enough how sorry-”

**  
**

“I should have you arrested…” The latter half of Sherlock’s sentence trails off into distracted nothingness.

**  
**

John squints into the darkness, because, though they’re not lying that far apart, there’s no way Sherlock is actually staring at his mouth in contemplation. That would mean-

**  
**

The roar of an approaching vehicle throws John and Sherlock apart as they scramble to catch sight of the newcomer.

**  
**

“Could be a drive-by,” John hazards a guess, “or just someone needing the loo.”

**  
**

When the the mobster walks toward the road to meet the approaching car, Sherlock looks at John with a raised eyebrow. The man that exits the car is clearly one of Oliver’s. He seems to be imparting some new information, arm waving out towards the desert. The first man turns and looks out into the night.

**  
**

“Oh shit,” John whispers.

**  
**

“Agreed. It seems they’ve spotted my car.”

**  
**

“You said it was safe to park there.”

**  
**

“I’m a genius, I’m not bloody infallible,” Sherlock snaps.

**  
**

“Well now what?” John snaps back, sliding backwards on his stomach, as if slinking further towards the bush behind him will actively hide him better.  

**  
**

“Let me think,” Sherlock mumbles, staring at the ground.

**  
**

John’s anxiety stops climbing, seems to hold steady. He’s already put his faith in Sherlock’s massive intellect, his vast wells of ingenuity, as stupid as that might turn out to be.

**  
**

John ends up being more right about that than he expects.

**  
**

“Um, Sherlock,” he mutters when a torchlight flashes mere feet in front of them.

**  
**

“Shh, I’m thinking,” Sherlock hisses.

**  
**

“Fuck,” John shuffles further back, “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.”

**  
**

“For god’s sake, what?!”

**  
**

John looks up at the man with the gun pointed at his face. “Nothing,” he mutters, “never mind.”

**  
**

“Oh,” the bloody genius responds, having finally looked up. So much for John’s faith.

**  
**

“Up, now,” the gun-wielding mobster grunts, cocking his matching Sig as if John and Sherlock weren’t already on their way to their feet. “You’ve given us a lot of trouble, Mr. Holmes. Our boss will be happy to hear I’ve buried your corpse where no one will find it.”

**  
**

“Unlikely,” Sherlock states with certainty.

**  
**

John’s eyes bug.

**  
**

“What did you say, prick?” The pistol finds its way toward Sherlock’s temple and John’s fingers itch to reach for his own borrowed piece.

**  
**

“Unlikely, you finding a place where my body wouldn’t be found. The native scavengers would have my bones picked clean in a matter of days, even if you buried me deep. Think about it.”

**  
**

John imagines he and the mobster share twin expressions of bewilderment, but where as the mobster likely isn’t sure if he wants to shoot Sherlock or punch him, John instead is busy trying to figure out why he’s still falling head over heels for this man. Pure insanity.

**  
**

“Regardless,” Sherlock goes on, “I’d like to speak to your boss.”

**  
**

“Oh yeah? And I’d like to take Jessica Alba out to dinner, but my dreams aren’t coming true anytime soon either.”

**  
**

The look on Sherlock’s face. John has to look away or he’s going to laugh outright.

**  
**

“Yes,” the man drawls, “as I was saying, I have information I think he’d find particularly interesting. It would be a shame if I was dispatched before I could impart it.”

**  
**

The mobster looks Sherlock up and down, skeptical. “What information?”

**  
**

“Lillian Barclay,” Sherlock answers cryptically. The name seems to mean something to the mobster, his eyes widen slightly. “But by all means, if you find it best to leave us to the ravages of the arid terrain I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure Oliver trusts your judgement.”

**  
**

“You know what, just shut your fucking mouth. March,” the man snaps and wedges the pistol into Sherlock’s side. “You too,” he addresses John, like John isn’t walking right beside them.

**  
**

John doesn’t laugh when Sherlock rolls his eyes, but it’s a close thing. This bloke clearly has a problem with issuing commands that are already being carried out.

**  
**

“Miller,” the mobster calls out to his partner, “I got ‘em.”

**  
**

They can hear the bloke crash through the brush, cursing when he trips and stumbles. When he rounds the corner from the loos, it’s the bloke whose pistol John has borrowed.

**  
**

“Oh, you mother fucker,” he says, coming at John like he’s going to clock him, but his partner puts a hand to his chest and stops him. “Did he still have my gun? Gimme my fucking gun.”

**  
**

“Huh?” The idiot responds. John sighs. Having a weapon had been nice while it had lasted.

**  
**

“You- Oh my god,” Miller snaps and grabs John by the back of his neck, shoving until he can pull the pistol from his waistband. He waves it at his partner. “You’re welcome, you fucking idiot. Mother fucker could have blown your head clean off. I told you he took my gun. Did you pat this one down?”

**  
**

“No, I-”

**  
**

“Never fucking mind, shut up, I’ll do it.” Miller snatches Sherlock and proceeds to pat him down. John knows he’s in too deep when just the sight of this ponce touching Sherlock’s waist, hips, and thighs put him into kill mode. If John’s reading the look Sherlock is giving him correctly, he’s not being subtle about his feeling either. He tries his best to settle before the men notice his rage.

**  
**

“You are so fucking lucky, Mitch, I swear to god.” Miller shoves the weaponless Sherlock toward the rental. “I’m going to dump you both in the Verde, your head up his ass.”

**  
**

Sherlock glances at John with a raised eyebrow. John has to bite his tongue or he’s going to lose it.

**  
**

“Nah, man, Holmes says he’s got information on Lillian. Wants to talk to the boss,” Mitch informs his partner.

**  
**

Miller looks Sherlock over, just as skeptical as Mitch had been. “Prove it.”

**  
**

“Why else would a British detective turn up in America looking for the major player of a South American drug cartel? We have our own criminals, trust. I didn’t come here to topple your empire.”

**  
**

This seems to stump the duo. John doubts it’s the truth but of course he has no idea what Sherlock’s real purpose is, so he has no choice but to follow along. He does his best to look like he’s in on the plan.

**  
**

“You still got the cuffs?” Miller eventually asks, looking put out at not being able to shoot them right off.

**  
**

“They’re in the car, I’ll grab ‘em.” Mitch runs off and Miller points his returned pistol at Sherlock’s head so they stay put.

**  
**

“They said you were smart,” Miller comments, eyeing Sherlock from behind the pistol.

**  
**

“I heard you were dangerous,” Sherlock gives a gallic shrug, “and yet you were taken out by a middle aged man with a limp. I guess we’re both disappointed.”

**  
**

John opens his mouth to defend himself but Sherlock cuts him a look.

**  
**

“Hey,” Miller steps forward, “I could blow those smart brains out right now, Lillian be damned, is that what you want? It’ll ruin that fancy hairdo for sure.”

**  
**

Sherlock gasps. “Fancy hairdo! What-” He cuts off when the nerves John’s been holding onto break and he starts laughing hysterically. “And whose side are _you_ on?” He growls at John, which only sets John to laughing harder.

**  
**

While he’s busy trying to get his giggles under control, Mitch jogs back with the handcuffs. It doesn’t look like there’s any way out of being cuffed, but the likelihood of being shot in the back of the head and dumped in a hole seems to have gone down, so John won’t argue. He hisses when the cold metal snaps across his wrist bone but Mitch ignores his complaint. Sherlock lets himself be cuffed with a quiet stoicism, a small quirk to his lips, like he knows something they don’t. John hopes it’s a way out of this situation, because John is stumped. They’re unarmed, likely about to be out numbered, and in the middle of no where.

**  
**

“Get in the back,” Miller shoves them, “go on. You’ll wait here until the boss shows up.”

**  
**

He slams the door behind them and parks his arse on the bonnet. Mitch leans up against the driver’s side door and starts apologizing for not patting them down when he found them. Miller doesn’t seem to care, he waves Mitch off as he pulls his mobile and makes the call to Oliver, or so John assumes.

**  
**

John lets his neck rest against the back of the seat, closes his eyes, and huffs, “So now what?”

**  
**

“Now you get over here and pull the piece of carbon fiber out of the cuff of my shirt,” Sherlock whispers, turning so his back is to John, his cuffed hands out.

**  
**

“What?” John, not understanding, asks.

**  
**

“Christ,” Sherlock quietly snaps, “would you listen? I have a lock pick sewn into my shirt cuff. Unroll the sleeve of my left arm and locate it.”

**  
**

“This ought to be good,” John mutters, eyeing the men outside before he turns and awkwardly raises his hands to reach for Sherlock’s arm.

**  
**

He crushes his eyes shut when a wave of heat works his way up his chest. He can feel the definition of Sherlock’s forearm, the slight sheen of sweat, the grit of sand still stuck to his skin where they’d lain on the ground. It shouldn’t be so erotic, but dammit, it is, it really is. John grips the rolled cuff, and, to the best of his ability given the awkward angle, begins to roll it down.  

**  
**

“So,” John says conversationally as he works, “did you see the painted desert? I saw you at that exit just outside.”

**  
**

“No.” Sherlock pauses. “You do understand that I’m _working_ , yes? Not sight seeing.”

**  
**

John scrunches his nose. “Yeah, no, I know, just making conversation. It was lovely. You should’ve seen it. There’s this little path, dammit,” he tugs uselessly at the cuff again, “through the desert. They mark all the native plants. Very informative.”

**  
**

“Uh huh,” Sherlock huffs. He couldn’t be more uninterested if he tried.

**  
**

“I think I’ve almost… There, is that it?” John pulls the rigid tool free and lays it in Sherlock’s open palm.

**  
**

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock says and turns back to face forward.

**  
**

The two watchmen are smoking cigars and chatting with each other, completely unaware that their charges are about to be loose. Within seconds John hears the click of the release and grins as Sherlock’s hands come free. He motions for John to turn, and he does, holding still as Sherlock prods at the lock. Again, the cuff is unlocked in seconds. John turns back, rubbing at his wrist.

**  
**

“That’s a handy skill to have,” he notes. “You got any more handy skills? Cause as far as I can tell, we’re still trapped.”

**  
**

“We want to be trapped.”

**  
**

“We do?” John asks.

**  
**

“For now,” Sherlock answers cryptically as he rolls his sleeve back up.

**  
**

John glances out the windscreen nervously. “And am I allowed in on this plan?”

**  
**

Sherlock grins. “Relax, John. This isn’t my first kidnapping.”

**  
**

“Oh, that’s comforting,” John replies dryly. “Do this a lot then, do you? Piss off drug cartels.”

**  
**

“I piss off everyone. Run-of-the-mill cat burglars, government assassins, black hat hackers, the odd terrorist organization, my family.” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

**  
**

John ignores that, just slides until his back is to the door, mostly so he can keep the men outside in his sights, but he also takes the opportunity to study Sherlock in the low light. Sherlock studies him right back. Lord knows what he’s seeing. John tries to keep the memory of his immense fuck-up off his face, but it’s possible Sherlock can read it from the way his stomach growls, or the way his hair has fluffed up in the wind.

**  
**

“I’ll be here when you decide you need me, then.” John settles in against the door.

**  
**

Sherlock doesn’t look impressed with John’s petulance; though, as far as John can tell, Sherlock is just full of it himself.

**  
**

He gives a great sigh. “Lillian Barclay is Oliver’s estranged fiancée, British born, they met while he was there to establish a foothold in Europe. That didn’t work out so well and they together came back to America. She left him three months ago and he’s been unable to locate her. He’s desperate for word from her, not even motivated by revenge, just love. Refreshing, isn’t it?”

**  
**

“Remarkable,” John agrees dryly. “So this whole war on drugs is actually just a missing persons case?”

**  
**

Sherlock grins but doesn’t answer. John scowls but doesn’t comment. He’s not really disappointed, just...oddly flat about the whole thing.

**  
**

It takes approximately a half hour for Oliver to make an appearance, and quite dramatically at that. He comes down off the exit in a red Porsche 911, going full speed until he fits the gravel and spins out. Like he hadn’t just done catastrophic damage to the paint, the man hops from the car and marches toward to John's rental. Sherlock is up and out of it before John registers the movement.

**  
**

“What the fuck?” Miller exclaims when Sherlock hands him the cuffs without looking, meeting Oliver halfway.

**  
**

John jumps from the car to follow behind. Just in case, he tells himself, though what he’s going to contribute he has no idea.

**  
**

“You’d better not be lying about Lillian, _cabron_ , or you’ll be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life,” Oliver colourfully threatens. He looks the type to fulfill the threat too; an honest to god real Mexican gangster. Probably closer in age to John than the rest, his hair is greying at his temples, his skin his roughened by the sun, and he completes the aesthetic of a Southern cowboy with his snakeskin boots and shirt tucked into his jeans. There’s a quiet menace about him, but John can still sense the desperation behind all the posturing, belaying the fact that he’s truly frantic for word from his fiancée.

**  
**

“I assure you, Lillian has contracted me to follow you and report back on anything I find. You’re a hard man to track,” Sherlock admits.

**  
**

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that,” Oliver snaps. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

**  
**

“I have no proof,” Sherlock says but holds up a hand when Oliver looks to interrupt, “but I’m sure you can understand why she sought me out. She doesn’t exactly trust you, am I correct?”

**  
**

Oliver deflates at this. “Yeah. But she hired you to contact me?” He seems cautiously hopefully.

**  
**

“Not at all, in fact. I wasn’t to contact you at all. Had a lot of idea’s on how I should conduct my investigation. She’s a… difficult woman to work with.” Oliver chuckles at this, an agreement. “I decided to take matters into my own hands and dispense with the subterfuge. I’m to meet Ms. Barclay at the Lancaster Hotel in Houston on Monday to divulge my findings. Two o’clock in the bar downstairs, if you’d like to cut out the middleman and confront her yourself.”  

**  
**

Oliver’s hands shake, as if he’s releasing pent up tension. He glances off into the distance, and in the silence, Sherlock looks to John. John shrugs, completely at a loss.

**  
**

“All right, Holmes. You’re free to go.” His hand comes up to point at Miller. “You shut your fucking mouth.”

**  
**

John glances over to find Miller glaring at him. He very much wants to give him a two fingered salute, but holds off in favour of following Sherlock back to his rental. Surprisingly, the keys are thrown by Mitch into Sherlock’s hand and they’re left completely free to drive off into the night.

**  
**

John sits in the passenger seat in the silence left over and just stares in the side mirror, waiting on… something, anything.

**  
**

“How are we feeling?” Sherlock asks after a mile or so.

**  
**

John turns toward him. “What do you mean?”

**  
**

Sherlock glances over, meets his eye for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. “I mean, that obviously didn’t go how you expected. I imagine you’re a bit put out. Perhaps you think I shouldn’t have let them go.”

**  
**

“No, I-” Sherlock makes a noise in his throat, one John interprets as ‘Don’t lie.’ “All right, yeah, I’m a little… confused. But I mean, I trust you know best. Who am I to judge?”

**  
**

“You think I should have kicked out their knees, snatched a gun and blown all their brains out.”

**  
**

“Oh, c’mon,” John snickers, “that’s absurd.”

**  
**

“I should have used your cane as a kendo stick and knocked them all unconscious. Perhaps rendered a few of them unable to father children, hmm?”

**  
**

“You’re ridiculous,” John announces, his tone clearly stating how endearing he finds it.

**  
**

“You’re the one with the lust for violence. I’m just sorry everything didn’t erupt into a melee of baseball bats and broken beer bottles.”

**  
**

John is out and out giggling now. “Doesn’t seem your style. You’re more a ‘poison-dart-in-the-wristwatch’ kinda bloke.”

**  
**

“Mmm, interesting,” Sherlock muses. His fingers drum on the steering wheel and John watches them in the light from the dash, thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. “John.”

**  
**

“Hmm?”

**  
**

“It was all a ruse.”

**  
**

“What was?” John cocks his head in confusion.

**  
**

“Lillian Barclay.”

**  
**

“What? She doesn’t want Oliver back?”

**  
**

“I doubt it, but as I’ve never spoken to her, I’ll never know. I just needed to confirm Oliver’s location to the authorities. When Oliver goes to Houston to meet Lillian, he’ll really be meeting the FBI. He’s the weakest link in the Juarez Cartel, he’ll flip on the other key members faster than anyone else would have. Case solved.”

**  
**

John gapes in shock. “You shammed that whole thing,” he whispers in awe. A trickle of impressed warmth spills in his stomach, filling him up better than any pub brawl could have done.

**  
**

Sherlock merely shrugs, but John can see his crooked smile. _Show off_ , John thinks.

**  
**

They pull up to Sherlock’s rental, hidden behind a billboard a few miles down the road. John feels the inevitable separation coming like a solid weight in his stomach. He goes to open the door, at least shake Sherlock’s hand before he goes, but to his surprise, Sherlock stops him.

**  
**

“Just grabbing my bag, won’t be a moment,” he says.

**  
**

John stares in silent wonder as Sherlock jogs over to the trunk and pulls his bag out. He grabs a few other bits and bobs from the front of the car but then returns to throw the lot in the backseat. John must have had a look on his face.

**  
**

“What?” Sherlock asks when he sits back down.

**  
**

“Nothing,” John is quick to say, “just, uh, wondering what you’re going to do with yours.”

**  
**

“Oh. I’ll just have it picked up tomorrow. I believe there’s a rental service not far.”

**  
**

Simple as that. All right, John won’t complain. He turns away so Sherlock won’t see the look of utter confusion on his face.

**  
**

They drive in silence for another half an hour before Sherlock mumbles to himself, drawing John’s attention from the passing cacti highlighted in the fog lights.

**  
**

“What’s that?”

**  
**

“A motel coming up. Probably not The Ritz but I doubt we’ll find an alternative before first light.”

**  
**

“Right,” John drawls, but to himself he’s wondering why he hasn’t thought of this already. It’s like he’s imprinted on Sherlock, an orphan duckling, following in his shadow without thought. He should have been thinking of this, because he has no idea what comes next. “As long as there isn’t a woman with a lit candle trying to show us the way…” He chuckles at his own joke.

**  
**

Sherlock glances over. “Why...would there be a woman with a candle?”

**  
**

In surprise, John laughs again, a sharp, possibly insulting thing. He can’t help it. “Hotel California.”

**  
**

“We’re in Arizona,” Sherlock helpfully points out.

**  
**

“Seriously? You don’t know Hotel California? The Eagles?”

**  
**

“Contemporary music I take it.” Sherlock says this as if it’s something trivial, which to him it probably is.

**  
**

“If by contemporary you mean the mid-seventies, then yeah.”

**  
**

“Hmm, if I ever heard it I must have deleted it.”

**  
**

John feels a frown pull at his face. “Deleted? You mean you just forget certain things?”

**  
**

“No,” he responds, sounding insulted. “Idiots _forget_ things, I forcibly remove them to make room for more important information.”

**  
**

“Huh,” John huffs, mildly impressed. “That’s a neat trick I suppose. Do you take requests? I’d like to delete sixth form.”

**  
**

“I can’t delete _your_ memories,” Sherlock sounds as if he truly believes John is that stupid. It’s only when he hears John snickering that he seems to understand that John had been teasing. He grumbles in return but it’s half-hearted.  

**  
**

About a mile later, they pull off onto the appointed exit, following the the spot of neon light from the hotel. It’s nearly deserted, only two other cars in the lot, one probably the owners. The whole scene looks like something out of a seventies horror film and John isn’t afraid to say so as they stop in front of the office.

**  
**

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Sherlock responds as he slams his door.

**  
**

John purses his lips. “I’ve had enough adventure for one night. And anyway, I’m less worried about axe murders than I am bed bugs.”

**  
**

“Axe murders I could help with, not so much the bed bugs, sorry.”

**  
**

“See? We should just sleep in the car.”

**  
**

Sherlock laughs but threats of being eaten in the night do nothing to stop him from checking in. John watches him walk away, pouting at the lanky frame; half in exasperation, half in sexual frustration. God help him if they have to share a bed. Christ, he should have thought about this!

**  
**

He watches the road, still wary of cartel members. John wants to trust Sherlock when he says they won’t be a problem anymore but that doesn’t mean the danger has completely passed. Like he said himself, he's is a genius but he’s not infallible.

**  
**

Dust kicks up on the road, he can hear the grit scattering across the asphalt, and John thinks it’s such a lonely sound, but then there’s no accompanying sense of melancholy he’s come to expect. Perhaps he’s finally killed that vague sense of desolation. Or, rather, Sherlock must have done it. He can’t think of anything more lonely than standing by himself outside a motel in the Mojave Desert, neon sign flickering above him, pitch-black all around, and yet…

**  
**

“The woman behind the desk didn’t seem too keen when I asked after the bed bug situation, which means either it’s clean and she resents the implication _or_ the bed bugs have taken over and she can’t verbally let me know without alerting them. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

**  
**

John grins so hard he has to turn away while Sherlock grabs his bag, lest he see and draw the wrong conclusion. Or the right conclusion. Either way, John’s fairly sure his infatuation is writ clean across his face. When he finally glances over, Sherlock is waving their room key in the air on his way toward the vending machines.

**  
**

“I’m thirsty, do you want anything? What do you want? They’ve got dark sugar water, light sugar water, hmm….purple or orange sugar water, and something purporting to be tea but.” Sherlock looks up with a grimace and John thinks it’s a pleasant relief, not having to choke down his opinion on American ‘tea.’

**  
**

John makes his way over and pushes the button for a Coke. “Ta.”

**  
**

“Splendid.” Sherlock ops for the same and together they head for the room. “I’m assured the towels are newly washed. What do you suppose _that_ means?”

**  
**

“Hopefully it means the towels are newly washed. I don’t want to think of the alternative.”

**  
**

Sherlock hums his agreement as he keys open the door. It swings open to reveal… exactly what one would expect from a motel in the middle of nowhere - no better or worse. The decor probably hasn’t changed since nineteen seventy-three, and the mini-fridge doesn’t have a door on it, but other than that it looks serviceable. To John’s secret disappointment there are two beds, but the linens look relatively new, which is a plus.  

**  
**

“If someone has died in here, keep your deductions to yourself,” John mumbles as they walk inside and glance around. He sets his bag down on the bed nearest the door and begins to pull his toiletries out.

**  
**

“If you’re truly concerned, I wouldn’t pull up the carpets,” Sherlock announces, causing John to groan at the bedspread. “I’m going to study the local hyphae.”

**  
**

“You’re what?” John queries.

**  
**

“Taking a shower,” he explains, quite obviously ignoring John’s pointed stare, the miniature bottles of shampoo and soap in his hands. “I’ll report back on the towel situation.” With that, the man takes his bag to the loo and shuts the door.

**  
**

“Lovely,” John grumbles. He sets the lot of it back down on the bed and instead reaches for the telly remote. _Might as well settle in until His Royal Highness finishes_ , he thinks. The water turns on and John shifts uncomfortably on the bed. He can hear Sherlock moving inside the stall; the walls are so thin there’s an acoustic play by play of movement. As soon as Sherlock steps under the spray John knows, can hear the way the water hits his body and bounces off. He groans as he feels his prick start to fill out. It’s useless. He’ll never get over wanting Sherlock. The feeling has only grown since he’s gotten to know him tonight, how can he expect to deal with this temptation?

**  
**

“John,” a rumbling voice calls from the loo and John starts, hand flying away from his groin like it’s on fire.

**  
**

“What!” He calls back, startled, sure he’s been caught out somehow.

**  
**

“What kind of shampoo do you have?”

**  
**

John frowns and reaches for it, the mini bottle he’d picked up at the last shop he’d stopped. “Dove for men,” he answers. “Why?”

**  
**

“Can I use some? I’ve run out and the dreck they have in here will turn my hair into a rat’s nest. It’s just chock full of sulfates.”

**  
**

John almost teases him about his fancy do, but he’s too busy trying to stand on shaking legs to answer. He turns the knob, lets a faceful of steam roll by, before stepping cautiously inside. He makes sure he aims correctly, then tosses the bottle over top of the shower rod. Sherlock cries out at being assaulted but John quickly shuts the door on his complaints, not that he can’t still hear them.

**  
**

“Just leave me enough, yeah?” He shouts when Sherlock stops whinging.

**  
**

“Fine,” Sherlock growls back.

**  
**

John marches back to his bed and buries his head under the lumpy motel pillow until the water shuts off in the loo. Cautiously, he peers out, waiting, and dreading, the real life Greek statue that threatens to appear. Seconds tick by, John waits in agony, like one would await a court sentence, until the door finally clicks open. John takes a second to realize he’s still cowering under the pillow, tosses it away before Sherlock appears. When he does, it’s both more terrible than he anticipated and not. Sherlock is framed in the doorway, still dewy from the shower, in nothing but his skin tight dove grey boxer briefs, his skin as white as Christmas snow. And yet… He’s brushing his teeth like a six year old, bits of foam building in the corner of his mouth, with his drying hair fluffing up every which way, suggestive of the towel he probably roughed over it haphazardly.

**  
**

“Er,” John attempts to articulate his discontent but Sherlock cuts him off.

**  
**

“Just a minute, I’m almost done,” he mumbles, mouth still around his toothbrush.

**  
**

“Sure,” John agrees. “You leave me any hot water?” He stares at the telly like Masterpiece Theater has him riveted.

**  
**

“I don’t think you could get cold water if you tried,” Sherlock muses and then turns back to the loo to rinse his mouth.

**  
**

“Too bad,” John mutters, eyeing the untouchable as Sherlock goes.

**  
**

Which brings him to the next pressing issue - normally he’d use the time in the loo to… take care of the urgent situation at hand, but with Sherlock feet from him, with only paper mache between them, there’s no way he’ll get away with taking himself in hand. How the hell is he supposed to relieve himself? Because there’s no doubt he’s going to sport this wide on for the foreseeable future. Sherlock’s nearly nude appearance just now has seen to that, mint drool and frizzy hair included.

**  
**

“All yours,” Sherlock announces, tossing his bag on his bed.

**  
**

John grabs his soap and makes a beeline for the loo, eyes dutifully forward until the door closes behind him. He rests against it, eyes closed to the sight of Sherlock casually strutting around in his magnificent glory. Christ, his thighs alone were going to haunt John’s dreams for the rest of his days, to say nothing for the rest of him.

**  
**

He twists the shower knob until the right temperature flows, as cold as he can get, which, as Sherlock predicted, isn’t much. Trousers, shirt, and pants are discarded hastily for the promise of a good scrubbing. Escaping Sherlock is only partly the reason for wanting the shower, he really is covered in a days worth of sweat and dust. The lot of it drains away and John watches as the murky water swirls. He can hear the telly being shut off, even the sound of Sherlock pulling things out of his bag. _Clothes hopefully_ , John fervently wishes. The sound serves to remind him that as much as he’d like, there is no chance of getting off in here undetected.

**  
**

He scrubs at his scalp with the remainder of the shampoo and ignores the sound of Sherlock muttering to himself. Impossible, the way the timbre vibrates the very porcelain at John’s feet, but he does his best. The time needs to be spent thinking about the future. He still hasn’t broached the idea of meeting again in London, if Sherlock would be amiable to renewing their unlikely friendship. The fact that he’d just assumed John would follow him tonight gives evidence to his likely agreement but that's tenuous at best, dependent on John’s ability to remain friendly and not… _friendly_.

**  
**

_I’ll be on my best behavior. Nothing untoward. Simple._

**  
**

John pulls the cloth curtain back and immediately registers his first mistake. A real whopper of one.

**  
**

He’s not brought his clothes into the loo, they’re still sitting on the bed. His options are putting his old, dusty, sweaty clothes back on to go out in or wrap the too small towel around his hips and run for it. _Or_ , he supposes he could take a page from Sherlock’s book and just have them fetched.

**  
**

“Sherlock,” he cautiously calls out.

**  
**

“Here,” he calls back, like John didn’t know that already.

**  
**

John rolls his eyes but explains without comment, “I forgot my clothes. Can you bring my bag?”

**  
**

“Busy,” is the reply.

**  
**

John scowls incredulously at the door. “Really? You’re two feet from it. Just toss it by the door.”

**  
**

“No time. Just come get it.”

**  
**

John growls, clutching at his towel like he might use it as a garrote. Several consecutive calls for help fall on deaf ears, so John sucks it up and jerkily wraps the towel around his waist.

**  
**

_Don’t think about the fact that all the muscle you had a year ago has melted. Don’t think about the ugly bullet hole in your shoulder. Don’t think about your strange semi-permanent tan._

**  
**

Just before he opens the door he remembers the cockstand he’s still sporting, and quickly tucks it up his belly, bunching the little bit of towel excess he has to work with in front.

**  
**

As soon as the door opens and he steps out John is aware of three things. One - Sherlock is still in his pants. Two - he’s sitting stretched out on John’s bed. Three - he’s smiling at John like John has done something fantastic.

**  
**

“Er,” John struggles to come up with something to say, which bit he should respond to first, and barely manages, “you’re on my bed.”

**  
**

Sherlock looks down like he didn’t know. “So I am.” He’s still smiling.

**  
**

“Why are you looking at me like that?” John wants to back into the loo and close the door.

**  
**

“I calculated a seventy-four percent chance you’d put your old clothes back on. I like being surprised.”

**  
**

“Oh,” John breathes. “So that was a calculated move on your part. Fantastic. _Why?_ ”

**  
**

“Yes.”

**  
**

John blinks at the mad man on his bed. The practically-naked-except-for-the-laptop-in-his-lap mad man on his bed. Instead of indulging Sherlock’s lunacy, John instead ops to grab his bag and move it to the opposite bed, all the while he can practically feel Sherlock’s pout aimed at his back as he one-handed pulls his pants and vest from it.

**  
**

Sherlock sighs dramatically behind him, but John is resolutely ignoring him.

**  
**

“John,” Sherlock tries.

**  
**

“Nope. I’m ignoring you.”

**  
**

“Yes, I see that.” John hears Sherlock set the laptop aside and move on the bed; his hair stands on end, sure that Sherlock is about to stand up behind him. “You’re so busy ignoring the fact that I’m half naked on your bed that you haven’t worked out _why_ I’m half naked on your bed. Too busy trying to hide your erection to work out why I’ve forced you to come out here in a towel.”

**  
**

John’s cock perks up first, before John has even parsed the impossible words. _He’s talking about me_ , John’s cock shouts. When a bit of rational returns to his brain, a bit, John stares up at the wall, the hideous painting beside the bed, and asks, “What?”

**  
**

“Well, let’s see. With absolutely no prompting on my part, you kissed me-”

**  
**

“That was-”

**  
**

“If you say ‘a mistake’ I’ll sleep in the car,” Sherlock threatens. John had been going to say ‘an accident’ but he shuts up. “As I was saying, I didn’t think I’d have to get to this point, as far as hints go, I thought renting a hotel room together was enough, but…”

**  
**

John hazards a glance behind him without turning. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed facing John, waiting patiently for John to figure out what he’s saying.

**  
**

“You mean…” He frowns. It seems so straightforward but for some reason John’s having a hard time believing it.

**  
**

“I mean get over here or so help me,” Sherlock growls.

**  
**

John is there in one stride, wedging himself between Sherlock’s spread thighs, and immediately angling Sherlock’s face upward to get at his mouth.

**  
**

Sherlock moans, wicked and low, as they meet. His thighs clamp shut around John’s legs and John finds himself pulled down on top. Without breaking contact Sherlock manages to rip away John’s towel and shuffle them the right way in the bed, with John still situated between his spread thighs. He can’t think, between the lush heat of Sherlock’s lips and the evidence of Sherlock’s arousal pressing against his own, it’s pure sensation and little else.

**  
**

Sherlock pulls away long enough to inform John that it’s been a very long time since he’s done this.

**  
**

John chuckles. “Same,” he mumbles before kissing Sherlock’s plump bottom lip.

**  
**

“Not as long, I assure you.”

**  
**

John thinks back to his last sexual encounter - a hasty mutual handjob behind the humvees with his CO, more than a year ago now. The last sexual encounter in a real bed, even longer than that. “It’s fine. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

**  
**

“I just don’t want to disappoint,” Sherlock shyly admits, nuzzling John’s cheek with his own.

**  
**

John pulls back far enough to give him a look. Sherlock blinks back up, bemused but pleasantly flushed. It’s a good look. There’s a particularly enticing bit of Sherlock’s throat that John wants to latch onto and not let go of, so he does, thinking it’s better to show Sherlock he’s not disappointing than to tell him. It seems to work, Sherlock rolls his hips up at John again with a heady moan. John can feel the way it rumbles against his lips, his tongue, and the sensation seems to dart down his spine straight into his cock.  

**  
**

“You need to lose the pants,” John informs him just before he bites down on Sherlock’s ear.

**  
**

“Or what?” The breathless reply ruins any attempt at flippancy.

**  
**

John could tease him right back, but the throbbing insistence of his erection is speaking louder than any attempt at levity. Instead he darts down the bed and forcibly removes the offending boxer briefs. Sherlock hisses in surprise but doesn’t seem to truly mind John man-handling him. In all reality though, if he was upset, John might not have noticed. He’s fairly rooted to his spot in front of Sherlock’s cock, staring down with the attention he’d given the painted desert.

**  
**

“Gorgeous,” he whispers reverently, tracing the lines framing Sherlock’s lower abdomen, the dark nest of hair, neatly trimmed, even though Sherlock says he hasn’t seen any action in years, down to the holiest of the holies, his erect penis.

**  
**

Sherlock makes a previously unheard noise when John takes him in hand, almost a noise of surprise. John smiles up at the man, though he’s not looking just then, busy arching up at the ceiling, just before he lowers his mouth down to taste for the first time.

**  
**

It’s such a random thought, but John can’t help but appreciate how much difference there is in sucking cock in a nightclub or just after a firefight, and now. Clean is the first thing John notices, basically.

**  
**

Sherlock cries out above him, and grabs at John’s shoulders absently. John ignores him and continues to explore the shape of him with his tongue, one hand working the base, the other exploring thighs and stomach and chest. For such a skinny git, Sherlock’s actually covered in muscle. John sucks gently but with increasing speed, letting his fingers trace Sherlock’s bicep, letting his eyes wander as well, to watch Sherlock pant and clutch at John like a lifeline.

**  
**

His jaw is starting to ache already, it’s been too long since he’s had any practice, so he pulls off and lets his hand take over for a second.

**  
**

Except a second is all Sherlock gives him before he’s throwing a tantrum.

**  
**

“John! No, don’t stop, for the love of god, don’t stop!”

**  
**

“I’m not, I’m just resting a bit,” he explains, trying to soothe the man with a gentle hand across his stomach. Sherlock is having none of it, just continues to whinge and pull at his hair, even though John’s still twisting his damn hand up and down his cock with not a small amount of skill.

**  
**

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock pleads as if he’s being killed.

**  
**

“Needy,” John mumbles, though it’s not like sucking Sherlock is exactly a hardship. And, Christ, the noises he’s making as John takes him in again, he will gladly continue if only to hear them.

**  
**

John never was very good at the deep throating bit, but he tries his hand at it again just to see what happens. Turns out Sherlock will, enthusiastically, fly off the bed and clutch at John’s head like he’s never felt something so good in his life. John has to pull back a bit, lest he choke to death, but getting that reaction is too good not to slide back down again.

**  
**

“John, oh my-” Sherlock breathes deeply for an intense few seconds, “god, oh god,” he deep, rumbling voice cries out.

**  
**

John feels a drop of pure erotic desire in his stomach, his prick is at full attention between his thighs, as Sherlock groans, coming hard down the back of John’s throat. He swallows as best he can but it turns out to be quite a lot, most of it ends up spilling from the corner of his lips. When Sherlock falls back down to the mattress, John pulls back with one last lick, wiping at lips with a forearm.

**  
**

Sherlock moans, “That was…” but doesn’t finish, too busy melting into the blanket to articulate, but John gets the message. He reaches out for his bottle of Coke to rinse his mouth, and then falls next to Sherlock with a self-satisfied grin, simply waiting patiently for the detective to come back online. He gulps his dark sugar water and thinks the view is well worth the wait.

**  
**

“Thank you,” Sherlock eventually manages. “I’d like very much to try that myself.”

**  
**

_Try it?_ John thinks in amusement. He’s about to ask Sherlock if he’s ever given a blow job before, but before the thought escapes his head he’s watching Sherlock turnover and study him, and John’s brain promptly turns to mush.  

**  
**

Sherlock studies every bit, looking like John is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. It’s absurd how turned on John is by this, like feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him are just as good, if not better, than his hands. He would have assumed being so intently studied would make him nervous but in the face of Sherlock’s keen pleasure, it’s hard not to preen, just a bit.

**  
**

Sherlock looks up with raised eyebrows, as if to ask ‘May I?’ John can only nod quickly, his tongue seems glued to the roof of his mouth. Long, musician's fingers fall to John’s chest, and he takes a deep breath, holding it until Sherlock moves them up to his shoulder. Even his scar seems trivial in the face of Sherlock’s pleasure. Not trivial, no, more like arresting, vital perhaps.

**  
**

“Interesting. Blue on blue,” Sherlock mumbles, and John starts.

**  
**

“How did you-”

**  
**

“Angle, size. Only thing I can’t deduce was intent.” He moves John forward a bit to look at the back, running his fingers over the scar tissue there as well.

**  
**

“Accident,” John answers, still riding the high of the inspection and Sherlock’s brilliance, despite the subject matter.

**  
**

“You’re sure?” Sherlock queries.

**  
**

“No reason not to think so. I jumped into the middle of a fire fight. And anyway, even if it wasn’t, he’s dead now.”

**  
**

“Same time?” Sherlock pushes John back down onto the pillow.

**  
**

“Yes,” he answers. Jefferson, he remembers, was the quiet sort, no one knew him well, but he was in his third deployment and hadn’t ever given anyone cause to think he’d snapped. Therefore, in John’s mind, it was an accident. “I didn’t find out until after that he was- _Jesus Christ!_ ” He shouts when Sherlock, without warning, runs his hand down and cups John’s bollocks.

**  
**

“Hmm, you’re so warm. Do you always run this hot?”

**  
**

John’s eyes boggle as he tries to answer. “When I’m being fondled by a gorgeous naked bloke, yeah, probably.” He hisses when Sherlock runs his hand up his prick to grip him. He’s testing out different ways to run his hand up and down, watching John for reactions, and John thinks again, _Has he done this before?_

**  
**

“I’d like to try fellatio now, is that all right?” He asks.

**  
**

John’s never heard something so ridiculous sound so sexy. He gulps and nods frantically again.

**  
**

The sight of those frizzy black curls moving down the bed quicken John’s already erratic pulse. He watches as Sherlock gets comfortable, eyeing John’s cock just like he’d done everything else, with a mixture of curiosity and pleasure. All John can think about is the feel of Sherlock’s palm and fingers wrapped around him and the sight of those full lips, just inches away from where he wants them. Nothing could be more important than feeling them there, where Sherlock is staring, calculating.

**  
**

And then he moves and John practically screams at the ceiling. Immediately the hot channel disappears and Sherlock is speaking. John blinks and looks down. “What?”

**  
**

“What happened? Was that not-”

**  
**

“Jesus fuck, you took me all the way down the back of your throat and you’re asking if you did it _wrong?_ ”

**  
**

“Did I? Should I keep going or not?”

**  
**

John stares at the idiot, unsure if he’s serious or not. “Depends.”

**  
**

“On?”

**  
**

“If you want it to last or not. I’m pretty much ready to shoot off just looking at you, if you’re going to fuck yourself on my prick, I need to know so I can warn you when it comes.”

**  
**

Some sort of light ignites behind Sherlock’s eyes. He likes this idea, John can tell.

**  
**

And, again, John finds the end of his prick sliding down the back of Sherlock’s throat.

**  
**

“Fuck, oh, fuck, yes,” he rambles at the ceiling again. It won’t be long now at all. Sherlock has already deduced how to hold his bollocks tight, tugging just so. John can feel his heels digging into the mattress, how his hips desperately want to kick forward. Sherlock seems to sense this as well. John looks down when Sherlock growls at him, which, if he wanted to last at all, is a mistake.

**  
**

Sherlock’s blue-green eyes are trained up at him, his lips stretched wide around him, and damn if he doesn’t look more debauched than he had done when John was doing the same for him. He takes his hand and tilts John forward by his arse, telling him without words that it’s okay to move if he likes.

**  
**

Experimentally, John pushes forward and back, and an explosion of new sensation runs up from his cock. There’s a drag that’s so perfect, so intense, John knows it’s all over.

**  
**

“Sherlock, Christ, I’m gonna come. Oh, fuck.” He tries to pull away but Sherlock clamps down with fingers and lips both. He groans, a last attempt to warn, but it’s too late, he’s already shooting off, unable to stop his hips from snapping, driving his cock in and out of Sherlock’s throat.

**  
**

They’re both gasping when Sherlock pulls off, John with the rush of a stellar orgasm, Sherlock with the lack of oxygen. John will feel bad about that in a minute.

**  
**

“Oh, that was fantastic!” Sherlock croaks. “We should see how much longer it lasts next time. I’d love to try different approaches as well, see if we can’t start from a different baseline and then draw it out. What else do you like during fellatio? I’ve noticed you’re particularly drawn to my fingers, we might incorporate those next time, if you’re interested in anal penetration, that is. If not, why not? I don’t suppose that would preclude being the penetrator because I’m not sure what my preference is and I’m curious to find out.”

**  
**

John tenses up as another pulse of come is forced out of him. He’s not sure if he wants to gag Sherlock again or not.

**  
**

“I see that idea isn’t off the table,” the man remarks, watching as the fluid drips down the side of John’s stomach.

**  
**

“I think I’m getting a neck cramp,” John mentions when he tries to turn his head to look at his newly acquired partner.

**  
**

“If that was a hint to massage it out, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I’m absolutely knackered.” He follows this pronouncement up with a dramatic flop, landing half on John.

**  
**

It’s all fine. He hadn’t been expecting one. What he also hadn’t expected was the best blow job of his life, so he’ll take what he could get. That thought is followed on the heel by another.

**  
**

“Sherlock,” he drawls cautiously.

**  
**

“Hmm?” Sherlock hums against John’s neck, a purr really.

**  
**

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re absolutely fucking amazing at sucking cock-”

**  
**

“I don’t have a gag reflex,” he supplies helpfully, as if John hadn’t noticed.

**  
**

“Yes, I know. But I’m curious… Was that your first time with a man?”

**  
**

Sherlock pulls back from John, and John’s stomach swoops with nerves, sure he’s offended the man. But Sherlock blinks at him like he’s not sure what to say.

**  
**

Eventually, after a second of shuffling, Sherlock quietly admits, “That was my first time full stop.”

**  
**

“You what?” John dryly asks, sure he’s misunderstood.

**  
**

“I’ve never… That was the first. Ever.” He won’t meet John’s eyes now.

**  
**

“But you said it had been a long time for you,” John points out.

**  
**

“Not technically inaccurate.” Sherlock runs his foot up John’s calf. “I was once kissed by a girl in primary school, before I had opened my mouth to inform her of her parents imminent divorce.”

**  
**

John snorts at this, perfectly able to picture a small, curly-headed Sherlock responding to an unwanted kiss with verbal harassment. “You seem to bring that out in people,” he notes, raising his leg to rub his foot along Sherlock’s.

**  
**

“You don’t find that off putting?”

**  
**

“What,” John asks, “your ability to sexually frustrate people and then verbally abuse them?”

**  
**

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

**  
**

John smirks and plants a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Not at all. I’m sure you had your reasons. Kinda makes me curious though.”

**  
**

“I never wanted to before,” Sherlock answers. Simplistic but to him it must have seemed good enough.

**  
**

“All right. Can I ask you another question?”

**  
**

“Of course.”

**  
**

“Why me?”

**  
**

It takes Sherlock a moment to answer. John starts a rhythmic brush of his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It smells of his cheap, corner shop shampoo and he has to wonder what his hair smells like when he’s at home.

**  
**

“Because it reminded me of the bees.”

**  
**

“What?” John snaps back to the conversation.

**  
**

“When you kissed me, it reminded me of the first time I’d been stung by a bee as a child.”

**  
**

Well… That was… “And that’s a good thing?”

**  
**

“Yes,” Sherlock vehemently snaps, as if John should know better. John wants to ask if he was stung on the mouth, but he’s already explaining. “I was three, it was in Mummy’s wild flower garden - absurd thing, planting wild flowers and trying to tame them - but I loved it there, I spent hours there as a child. I was studying an Emperor Moth caterpillar-”

**  
**

“You remember all that?”

**  
**

“Of course,” Sherlock responds, a frown between his eyes. John laughs because he probably thinks everyone has that type of memory and just choose not to use it. “Their patterns are very distinct, John,” he explains.

**  
**

John is still laughing but he manages, “I’m sorry, go on, you were saying?”

**  
**

“I was explaining, I stepped on it. The bee. It was an accident but it happened. I wasn’t wearing shoes, I rarely did in the garden, so I got the full brunt of the sting. It was traumatic.”

**  
**

“And this traumatic thing is linked in your mind to my kissing you?” John tries to see a link that doesn’t include being painfully assaulted but is coming up empty.

**  
**

“Yes. The sting wasn’t traumatic, the trauma stemmed from its death. I didn’t mean for it to happen. The bit that reminded me tonight,” he stops to collect his thoughts, “I felt honoured by its sacrifice. This magnificent creature had lived to serve, to be of use to a greater whole, and its last heroic deed was to leave a part of itself with me. I was _honoured_.”

**  
**

John, for his part is still stuck on the fact that a three year old had felt these things, but he can’t stop staring down at Sherlock’s earnest face, the way he’s trying to impart his feelings.

**  
**

“You felt honoured by my kiss?”

**  
**

Sherlock nods once. “Yes.”

**  
**

“All right.” There _might_ have been a burst of earth-shattering love in his abdomen for this man, but John doesn’t let it show outwardly; no matter how honoured Sherlock is, it doesn’t mean he’s ready for John to pledge his undying devotion. He merely lowers his head and kisses him, come breath and all.

**  
**

“You want something to drink?” He offers after they pull away. It’s only polite.

**  
**

“No.”

**  
**

“All right.” John chuckles at the ceiling. “Time for sleep I think. It’s been a long day.”

**  
**

“I rarely sleep,” Sherlock informs John with a yawn. It’s too adorable for words.

**  
**

“Well I’ll be here while you wait then.” He closes his eyes, sure Sherlock is following right behind him.

**  
**

“John?”

**  
**

“Hmm?”

**  
**

“When is the lease on your bedsit over?”

**  
**

John cracks an eye open. “Why do you ask?”

**  
**

“No reason.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished this random story. Off to finish the long-awaited conclusion to my Unilock. If you haven't read it, kudos this one and head over there next. See what I did there?  
> I'm available day or night on that bear trap known as [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank). Come say hi!  
> If you're interested, I have an 8tracks playlist for this fic [here](http://8tracks.com/ragazzaguasto/on-a-dark-desert-highway).


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